Who Is This (who writes in your name)?

When you emerged from the chill
of winter, when your ears warmed
to the words they said, I heard you
softly whisper – Please. Let me be. If it
was a plea for solitude it went unheeded,
instead you were besieged with gifts
and gratuitous genuflections. The
odious maledictions of recognition,
a crown of poetic thorns and the
allergic piqué of lesser souls was sour
salt in your eyes; the tears were real but
the signs also said otherwise. It was
there you resigned from this life. I was
sad for you, there is no greater loss than
love barely expressed before it is torn
away. And now you are gone. But who
is this who writes in your name?
© I.D. Carswell 2007